


my hands are wandering

by fishlette



Series: my queen moves every single way [3]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 11,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishlette/pseuds/fishlette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hera's adventures after 'stung by the light of the sun'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light

It is approaching dusk when Hera comes upon the caravan. A long procession of people and wagons and horses, dotted with little spots of light. Lanterns, Hera realises as she walks closer. The leader calls for them to halt and camp is swiftly assembled. They build a bonfire and settle around it to eat and share tales. She comes then, into the firelight and tells her story of a woman with an unfaithful husband and children who she fears will never forgive her. The elderly woman beside her pulls Hera into her ancient arms, lets her cry as she strokes her hair. And just like that she becomes one of their own.

They are refugees fleeing from war, women and children and men who have lost husbands and fathers, sons and brothers. They have left behind their homes and all they know but they are alive and grateful and they sing and dance and laugh and Hera laughs with them. They travel south, stopping along the way to take odd jobs or sell wood carvings and needlework. By the time they reach the southern ports there is enough money to buy everyone passage on a merchant ship to Troy.

Hera wishes she could blanket them in blessings and protective charms but she does not want Poseidon to find her, she has done well evading the gods thus far. She watches over them instead, pacing the deck well past the midnight hour. She sits with Agapios the caravan leader who also refuses to sleep.

“I made a promise to look after my people and I will not break it.” He tells her. They talk about politics and war and the men who play those violent games.

“My son,” she says, “is a warrior.”

He is surprised, eyes wide, mouth hanging open and she laughs when he stutters his apology. “You do not look like a woman with a son old enough to fight in wars.”

“You do not look like a man who fights in wars.” And he doesn’t. Agapios is tall, much taller than Hera, but where Ares is muscular and battle hardened, he is soft lines and lanky limbs. Agapios, Hera decides, must have been a scholar. He smiles when she tells him. “A very poor one,” he says.

He asks Hera about her life before the caravan and when she is reluctant to share, divulges a secret of his own.

“I killed a man.” He says, staring into the moonlit sea. “A soldier, he charged at me and I stabbed him.” He takes a deep breath to calm himself but his hands are shaking. “A man who might have had a family, a wife and sons waiting for him.” Agapios drops to his knees gasping for air, reaching out blindly. Hera grabs his hands and kneels beside him, she runs a soothing palm over his brow and waits for him to calm.

“Are you sorry?” she asks, “Do you feel remorse for what you did?” He nods weakly. Hera smiles at him and gives his hand a comforting squeeze. “Then I’m sure you will be forgiven.”

They sit in silence until the sun rises. The rest of the ship rouses slowly and eventually Hera is called to help with the children. She takes Agapios’ face in her hands and looks into his eyes. “You are a good man.” She says before she goes.

They meet again at night and Hera tells him about Zeus.

“The man who never loved me.” She says.

“Your husband.” He says.

“Not anymore.” She says.

They are good friends, Hera the beauty who ran from a fickle marriage and Agapios the tortured scholar. The elders share wise looks and amused expressions and secretly begin wagering on their growing friendship. “You two would make a charming couple.” Agathe tells Agapios one night as he helps the elderly woman below deck. He blushes and excuses himself but finds his eyes lingering on Hera for the remainder of the trip.

The ship docks on the shores of Troy and the caravan sets out once more. One by one their numbers dwindle as caravan members decide to settle in the villages they pass. Agapios always makes sure they have all they require before moving on, climbing roofs to check for leaks, cutting up extra firewood. Hera cannot help but admire his dedication.

“I made a promise.” He reminds her when she scolds him for nearly falling off the roof.

Finally there is no one left but Agathe the old woman who lost her sons, Agapios the lonely scholar, and Hera.

“Ask her.” Agathe urges pushing Agapios to Hera. He stumbles forward and clears his throat, nervously wringing his hands. Hera hides a smile behind her hair. He’s not sure what to say, how does one ask a woman, a friend, if she would like to live with him without sounding forward and presumptuous?

Hera’s eyes are twinkling and she giggles into her hand. “Yes.” She says before he can ask.

The three of them move into a small house on the edge of the village. Agathe sets up her spinning wheel in one room and leaves the rest of the house to the young ones. Agapios chops firewood and fixes up the roof and Hera hangs lanterns in every window.

They are the family that lives in the little house of light.


	2. Shadows

There are shadows under Agathe’s eyes and Hera suspects that she is having nightmares but Agathe does not mention anything and Agapios is blissfully oblivious so Hera says nothing.

They go into town once a week, Agapios works as a scribe for the merchants and Hera helps sell the wonderful creations born of Agathe’s loom and spinning wheel. This week Agathe has made nothing; she sits at the window and stares at the sky.

“Oh child,” she says when Hera comes to sit with her, “I am dying.”

 _No! No, no, no._ Hera does not realise she is crying until Agathe wipes away her tears, her hands are trembling and she’s shaking her head.

“It must be a mistake.” She croaks, voice catching in her throat.

“No mistake little one. Thanatos will be coming for me soon.”

Agapios comes home and finds Hera crying in Agathe’s embrace. He rushes over and the three of them spend the night on the floor by Agathe’s window laughing and crying and remembering. Agathe has written a list for them, things they always forget to do she says. “Remember to wear extra clothes when you climb on the roof, boy. You’ll need padding in case you fall.” She reminds Hera to put out the lanterns, “You never seem to remember.”

She teases them relentlessly, taking their hands and clasping them together. “These four years have been the best in my life since my sons died. Take care of each other.” Agathe closes her eyes.

They lay her out on her bed in a new gown, crisp and white, Agathe had bought it recently. _Never know when you’ll need to look your best,_ she had said. She must have known for a while, Hera thinks. They cover her eyes with gold coins and pray until the fire burns out. Agapios has fallen into a fitful slumber when Hera slips out the door.

Thanatos is draped in shadows; the air around him is thick with death and sorrow. He nods at her in greeting and makes to enter the house. Hera stops him, “Must you take her?”

Thanatos sighs, “I’m sorry.”

Hera drops her arm and follows him inside. He passes his hands over Agathe’s face with the touch of a lover and presses a tender kiss to her brow. “It is done.” Thanatos says, patting Hera’s shoulder as he passes.

They are outside again when Hera asks, “Will you tell Zeus?” Thanatos chuckles, a deep rich sound, “I report to Hades.” He says, “Your brother will not betray you.” And then he is gone and Hera is standing alone in the shadows.


	3. Truth

“I heard you,” Agapios tells her in the morning, “talking to Thanatos. You’re not named after the goddess, you _are_ the goddess.”

Hera nods and waits for his anger. He hates her, she thinks, she would hate her too. There is a long stretch of silence and then, “I love you.” He says, he’s smiling at her, so bright and sunny and heartbreakingly beautiful and she has to suppress the urge to poke his dimples.

“I wanted you to know before you left.” He takes her hand and kisses her palm, Agapios looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders and she wants to take him in her arms and never let him go.

“Left?” his confession leaves her dazed, she feels light and fluttery, as though she has sprouted a thousand wings that let her hover above the ground.

“Tell me the truth Hera.” He says her name reverently, “Are they coming for you? The gods?”

“No, no,” she says, “they will not come for me.” She is crying again, so many tears in so many days, but these are happy tears. “And even if they do I will not leave you.”

“I will never leave you.” Agapios promises.


	4. Lies

It is a lie of course. Agapios breaks his promise two years later. It is not his fault, he is only mortal after all. The blade is sharp and stained with his blood. Agapios staggers backward and slides down the stone wall of the dark alley. The fat merchant sneers at him between his wiry mustache and extra chin. Hera will be his by the morning.

She’s inconsolable, a tempest in her grief and rage. The merchant tells her that it was a group of bandits, that Agapios sacrificed himself in the skirmish. Hera doesn’t believe him. She casts him out of the house and covers Agapios’ body with her own, sobbing her lament.

Thanatos knocks on the door twice before he enters. Hera is ready for him.

“Who?” she asks, the question is dripping with venom.

“The merchant."

Thanatos lets her hold Agapios’ hand while he performs the ritual, “I’m sorry.” He says.

Hera walks Thanatos out the door, and then morphs into a vicious beast, seeking retribution. She doesn’t have time to wait for Nemesis. No, she must do this with her own hands.

The merchant is reclining luxuriously on his bed, eyes closed and running his thick fingers along his thighs. “Hera,” he moans.

She wills herself not to kill him on the spot and then clears her throat, stepping into the room with a coy smile. “I need someone.” She says, the epitome of a promiscuous widow. He scrambles to his feet and lumbers toward her, fingers twitching in anticipation.

He’s barely grazed her skin before he crashes to the floor howling in pain, blood gushing between his legs.

Hera sets the house on fire and leaves before Thanatos comes calling again.


	5. Fall (Autumn)

She goes south when autumn comes, joining the birds on their pilgrimage. Hera is cold to the bone, has been since she burnt the merchant with the last of her rage. She’s hollow now and she thinks she can hear the wind whistling through her empty chest, pulling at her withered lungs. She is searching for something. Warmth? Hera doesn’t know. She crosses the sea and heads west into the desert.

The heat beats mercilessly on her skin, burning her, branding her and Hera feels deliciously mortal. She treks across the scalding sands for days, never stopping, never sleeping. She relishes the unbearable heat, it helps her forget.

Her clothes fray and tatter but she is no less beautiful. Hera is grieving in the sand, and that is how they find her. A group of eight with golden skin, swathed in heavy scarves, weary travelers who have weathered cruel storms and crueler people. They help her onto the back of a camel and together they spend a week under the relentless sun.

Hera rides with a man named Muhammad. He’s on his way home to his wife and daughter with a bag of gold he earned abroad. His wife is pregnant, he tells her excitedly, and they are certain it will be a boy.

“And what of your family?” he asks her. Hera’s throat tightens and she can feel the bile churning in her stomach, “I have no family,” she says.

Muhammad pats her shoulder paternally. “Nonsense,” he says, “you can stay with us.”

Muhammad’s house is in the heart of a crowded dusty city, it is small and made of tightly packed mud but it is full of warmth and love. They are greeted by a tiny girl with large amber eyes, bouncing at the door.

“Papa, papa!” She cries, jumping into Muhammad’s outstretched arms. He laughs and sets her down to embrace his wife. Hera wonders if there was ever a time when her life was like this. She feels a tug on her dress and looks down to see Muhammad’s daughter staring at her.

“Hello, my name is Neela.” Her eyes are bright and unblinking, full of curiosity.

“I am Hera.”

She tells them her story, the caravan, Agathe, she cries when she tells them of Agapios. Neela holds her hand tightly, “Don’t cry,” she tells her, “he wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

“She’s right, there will be no tears in this house,” says pregnant Marah. Muhammad’s wife is beautiful and with the authority of a loving mother, tells Hera to help her cook dinner.

Hera settles in with the growing family, helping with the chores that are too difficult for Marah. They treat her like their own, Marah makes her a new dress and braids her hair and Muhammad chases away the young men who gather to watch Hera at their pottery stand outside the house. Marah teaches her how to work clay, moulding it into beautiful shapes and Muhammad shows her how to fire the kiln. Soon their little stand is flocked with men who wish to buy bowls made by Muhammad’s desert daughter.

Winter comes and goes and it is mid-spring when Marah gives birth to a boy with Neela’s eyes.

“He is beautiful.” Hera says, passing the babe to his proud father.

“And now I have three children.” Muhammad laughs, pressing a kiss to Marah’s sweat soaked brow. They name him Khurram and Neela yells excitedly in Hera’s ear. “We have a brother!”

The new baby is fascinated with the world, he likes to crawl and climb and wriggle into small spaces. He likes to tug on Hera’s braid and stuff it in his mouth. Khurram loves Hera, Hera loves him too.

Autumn comes again and Hera is warm.


	6. Secure

It is night in the desert, dark and cool and the winds tumble through the streets racing to the east window of Muhammad’s house. Hera secures a lantern to the windowsill, waiting for the breeze to deliver messages from Greece.

Across the room, Neela is asleep and dreaming and all is quiet save for the low buzzing around Hera’s window. The lantern flickers madly in the restless breeze, flirting with the winds as they swirl impatiently, waiting for their turns to whisper in Hera’s ear.

They sing songs of prayers and pleas, of the young woman who is pregnant with her first child, the younger woman who is preparing for her wedding, and the older one who fears her husband may cast her aside. She listens to them all and composes songs of her own, blessings with shimmering notes and glittering tunes, and bids the winds to send them across the desert and over the sea. She works through the night and the early hours of the morning, the sun is just beginning to stretch its rays when the last breeze blows past her ear.

“Mother,” Hebe’s voice, high and clear and wispy, “I’m getting married mother.” _Oh sweet daughter_ , Hera’s heart warms, dear sweet Hebe deserves all the love and happiness in the world. 

“To Heracles.”

Hera’s heart stops, constricted by icy fingers that dig and burrow their nails into the muscle. “Please don’t be angry,” the wind cries in Hebe’s voice. “He loves me. He’s struggled with himself for a long time, hating himself for loving me because…” _I am your daughter_. Hera hears the unspoken words and the nails burrow a little bit deeper and her throat feels a little bit tighter and are those tears trying to leap from her eyes?

“He loves me, mother, and I love him. I am asking for your blessings but I understand if you do not wish to give them. I am sorry if I upset you.” _No, daughter_ , she shakes her head, _do not be sorry for finding love. Never be sorry for your happiness my dear._

Hera weaves a wedding veil, beautiful and iridescent, with her blessings and her tears. Her love. _Be happy daughter, be happy_. She secures it to the wind with a pin from her hair, a cluster of tiny pearls set in fine gold, a gift from Marah, _my mother_.

She sends the wind on its way, _to my daughter_ , and watches it dance beyond the horizon. _You have my blessings dear one._


	7. Purpose

Her siblings show him no great love when she tells them. They warn her away from him, intercept his letters and tokens of affection. Eris returns them to him, unopened, in front of the other gods _(always eager to stir trouble that one)_. “Stay away from my sister.”

“Keep your distance, boy,” Hephaestus tells him, eyes gouging holes in his skull. Ares is less subtle, he beats Heracles into the ground and rants and raves until Eileithyia pulls him away. Hebe finds him afterwards to apologise. “They only want to protect me.”

She apologises too, on behalf of her mother, bows to him over and over, “I do not wish to excuse or justify what she did, but my mother is gone now and I imagine I will never see her again.” Hebe’s eyes are wet and she tells him to stop sending her gifts, to turn his attentions elsewhere. “Tormenting Hera’s children will not ease your pain,” she says. “Let us have peace.”

She doesn’t know, doesn’t understand how hard he has tried to stay away. He has spent every night with a different body in his bed; men, women, mortals, nymphs, each more beautiful than the last. He has nearly drowned himself in Dionysus’ prized collection and still he cannot forget her.

(-)

He’s not quite sure when it started or how. It wasn’t like this at first, in the beginning he hated them all. Seeing Hera’s volatile _(Ares)_ , deformed _(Hephaestus)_ children enjoying immortality while his own precious family rot in the ground was unbearable.

Eris is chaotic, sparking arguments wherever she goes, _like mother like daughter,_ Heracles thinks. Eileithyia is condescending, _“I lead new life into the world,”_ he hears her tell the nymphs and he wishes he could end hers if only to rid the world of her smug smirk. The cupbearer is the worst though. If her siblings are reflections of her mother then she is naught but a mote of dust upon the mirror; too pleasant and cheerful to be Hera’s daughter. He despised her for he could find nothing to despise _in_ her.

He saw her everywhere, smiling, laughing, she was friendly to him and he loathed it. He wanted more than anything to rip the smile from her face and grind her teeth into nothing.

It was oh so gratifying for him to watch Zeus tear Hera down, see the proud queen reduced to a broken hollow shell, and then he saw Hebe, the gentle _(useless, awful, smiling)_ daughter, silence the court in her mother’s name. She was fire, molten and searing, she was glorious.

(-)

His eyes seemed to have a mind of their own; they searched for her constantly, scouring the grounds. “She doesn’t come to Olympus anymore, none of them do,” Apollo tells him, happy to no longer have to deal with his half siblings. Part of him rejoices and thinks perhaps now he will be free of her spell, the other half recoils and twists uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

One month passes, two, the twisting becomes a painful gnawing. Logic tells him to stay away, he’s going to destroy himself, and he tries hard to listen.

Three months, four, five, six, the gnawing is now tearing at his insides, he thinks it’s _(whatever it is)_ chewing up his organs.

Seven months, eight, nine, clawing at his ribcage, bursting through his chest.

Ten months, eleven, he almost makes it to a year when Hades comes to court. His uncle observes his behaviour and tells him bluntly that Olympus has turned him into an idiot. Heracles writes his first letter to Hebe that night.

Her response is brief and impersonal, telling him to cease his cruel jokes. She does not reply to his second letter or his third.

(-)

“I love you.” He says, catching her wrist before she can leave. “I do not jest,” pulling her against him, “I do not lie.” _Oh how he’s longed for this._

“I don’t love you.” She says, “I don’t feel anything for you.”

“Let me change that.”

(-)

“What is the meaning of this?” Hephaestus demands when Heracles presents himself as a possible suitor.

“I am in love with Hebe.”

“You lie!” Ares’ sword sits angrily on Heracles’ throat.

“Let him try his hand,” Eileithyia says. “Hebe will not love him.”

(-)

She doesn’t smile anymore. He tries and tries and tries, writes her letters and poems, gifts her beautiful trinkets that match her eyes but she never smiles for him.

“I don’t want any of it.”

“Tell me what you want and I will give it to you.”

“You cannot give me what I want.”

(-)

“A challenge?” Apollo rubs his hands together gleefully. “Fear not, I will help you.”

(-)

Apollo’s advice fails miserably and Heracles demolishes a marble wall in his rage _(it’s Ares’ house anyways)_. How dare she spurn him when he has braved all his demons, practically sacrificed his sanity for her!

“So I should be grateful to you because _you_ chose me? I should succumb to your will because _you_ ‘fell in love’?” Hebe narrows her eyes. “I never asked for you Heracles!” She hisses, “I am not obligated to return your feelings. If it is retribution against my mother you seek then you will not get it from me!”

“I do not care about you mother!”

“I do! And I will not love some who enjoys her pain!”

(-)

“You were right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Eileithyia says. She spares Heracles a pitying glance. “You are stuck, back from the dead but not living as you should. You can’t honestly expect my sister to love you as you are now?”

“I don’t understand…”

“You have been given another chance to live, reborn as a new man, a god. You are Heracles the immortal, let go of your mortal memories.”

(-)

Heracles pays his homeland one last visit, bids farewell to an existence that caused him so much pain.

He has a new purpose now.

(-)

He pushes past an indignant Eris and breaks down Hebe’s doors. Ares will have his head but he has to tell her.

“I understand now.” He says, gripping her shoulders tightly, “I understand.”

(-)

Their renewed courtship is a whirlwind, strong and destructive. Hephaestus and Ares disapprove. Zeus even offers to let Hebe choose any man in the world that suit her fancy.

“I choose Heracles.”

(-)

“I love you.”

“Finally.”


	8. Meaning

The gods of Olympus do not track time, it is a pointless endeavor, but if they did Heracles is sure that he has been chasing Hebe for years. Finally he has her, heart and soul and forever, and still he cannot have her.

“Mother will never approve,” Eris says, for once not hostile or challenging. Her hands are gentle on Hebe’s face. "Think about what you are doing sister.” Hebe is stricken, trembling violently and he reaches for her but Ares is there first. They guide her away and Hephaestus stops him when he goes to follow.

“Eileithyia says your words are true.”

“She is correct.”

“For you sake she better be.”

Heracles finds that courting Hebe’s siblings is a more arduous task than any he has faced before, and this time Eileithyia does not help him. _“I am a goddess not a miracle worker,”_ she says. Surprisingly Hephaestus is the easiest to win over, though Heracles doesn’t as much win him over as Hephaestus tires of his ever present pestering in his workshop.

“It is not up to me,” he sighs, “all I want is for my sister to be happy.”

“It’s not my decision to make,” Eris tells him when he visits, unannounced, for the eighty-sixth time.

He follows Ares to the arena and lets the war god beat him countless times. “I can beat you into oblivion and it will not change a thing.” _Why? If not them then who gets to decide?_

 _Hera,_ even when she has disappeared for years the woman still manages to torture him.

They sit around a stone table, Eileithyia, Hephaestus, Eris, Ares, and try their best to explain to him with their silence. Heracles hangs his head, crushing the bench between his fingers. _He has let go of his hatred towards Hera, when will she?_

The door bursts opens with a bang and Iris stumbles in, dishevelled and ecstatic, her eyes are wild and gleaming with excitement. She’s babbling nonsense, tugging Eileithyia from her seat frantically.

“Lady Hebe! At the window!”

Ares and Heracles are on their feet at once, destroying several hallways in their hurry. Hebe is in tears, crumpled by the window. “Ares!” she calls, reaching for her brother.

“What has happened?” Ares kneels by his sister.

“Mother…” Hebe sobs, clutching at her chest, “mother…” Her hands are tangled in a shimmering glow, a gossamer material twisting in the light, a wedding veil.

“Mother…”

The room quiets and a strong wind spins around them, singing Hera’s blessings.

“Do you know what this means?” Iris takes the veil and pins it to Hebe’s hair with a cluster of pearls. The siblings are silent and Heracles is so, so hopeful. “Lady Hera must be desperate for grandchildren.”


	9. Past

The wedding is a modest affair but Hebe has never looked so grand, with pearls in her hair and a veil trailing behind her. She smiles at her guests and bows down to receive a kiss from Zeus.

“Are you happy daughter?”

“Yes.”

There is drinking and dancing, beautiful nymphs prancing but all Zeus can see are his daughter’s eyes shining with gaiety.

“Your veil is beautiful.”

“It was a gift.”

He doesn’t know what made her siblings relent but he sees Hephaestus smiling for the first time in ages and Ares is twirling Eileithyia in circles among the dancers, even Eris decides to spare Apollo from a taunting of his ridiculous outfit and pats his back instead. Zeus feels a little lighter and a little brighter and hopes and prays that things will stay this way.

He sees Poseidon conversing with Iris and goes to join them. Their heads are bent and their words are hushed.

“It is Lady Hera’s creation.” Iris whispers and Zeus can almost pinpoint the precise moment when his heart stops beating.

“A beautiful wedding gift,” Poseidon says. “How does my sister fare?”

“I know not,” Iris sighs. “Only Lady Hebe has spoken to her, and even then it was indirectly.”

Zeus clears his throat and steps to them purposefully. Iris hurriedly excuses herself and Poseidon raises his eyebrow. “Enjoying yourself brother?”

“Don’t change the subject…”

“I remember your wedding,” Poseidon says, taking a sip from his goblet. “Very elaborate, very you. I remember the golden chairs and the golden plates, even your fingernails were painted gold!” He chuckles, “Hera just wanted to have dinner."

“Let us leave the past alone tonight brother,” Poseidon waves his empty goblet in the air and turns back to the crowd. "Just for a little while.”


	10. Future

Neela is twelve when she wakes in the middle of the night and sees her _sister_ pressing glowing fingertips to her skin; and the smooth surface is wrinkling and Hera is aging before her eyes.

“Magic woman,” Neela breathes. “Can you teach me?”

Aging charms, Hera shows her, hair greying with a flick of her wrist, because Hera doesn’t age.

“What if I want to live forever?”

“Forever is a long time little one.”

Neela is fourteen when the suitors come. They bring gifts of silk and money and Neela rejects them all

“I am magic, papa. My husband must be magic too.”

Muhammad laughs and strokes her hair fondly, “Papa will find you a magic husband.”

Neela is fourteen and seven months when one of the men she rejected tries to force himself on her. He corners her in an alley and pins her to the wall.

“Where is your magic now?” Sneers the general’s son.

Her eyes glow bright and her hair whips furiously in the wind. Neela pries his hands off of her and blots the alley in shadow.

“I am magic.”

There is not enough of him left for a funeral.

Neela is fifteen when war comes. The general takes all the able bodied men he can find to serve in his army. Muhammad is too old and Khurram too young but he takes them anyway.

“You can’t do this!” Marah cries.

“I can and I will!” The general spits. “This is punishment, this is for my son!”

Hera sets his beard on fire when he walks out the door. Neela follows him and sets his hands on fire.

Neela is seventeen when they lose the war. Muhammad is dead and Khurram is missing and Marah is delirious with grief.

“Take care of mother.” Neela tells Hera as she gathers her belongings

“Where are you going?”

“To find our brother.”

Neela is seventeen and five months when she breaks into the sultan’s dungeons. She freezes the guards and melts the iron chains.

“Run." She tells the prisoners.

Khurram has been tortured and starved, there is a scar under his right eye and he is bleeding.

“How?” He asks as Neela heals his wounds and spirits him away.

“Magic.”

Neela is seventeen and seven months when her family is on the run from the new regime. Marah’s health is failing fast and even Hera is powerless to restore her. She dies watching the sun set. They cremate her body and her daughters send her ashes to the winds, twisting, waving goodbye.

“Magic,” Khurram whispers. “Teach me.”

Neela is nineteen when Khurram leaves them. He returns to the sultan’s palace seeking revenge. The guards shoot him full of arrows but he manages to burn them to the ground. Khurram kills them all, and dies.

Neela is twenty two.

“Do you ever think about the future?” Hera asks her.

“Yes,” she replies. “I think you will leave me too.”

“It is inevitable.”

“Why?”

“Because I am forever.”

“I am magic.”

“But you are not forever.”

“Forever is a long time.”

“Yes little one.”

Neela is twenty two and one day old and she is exhausted. She closes her eyes, and goes to sleep.


	11. Star

The girl is just short of childbearing age, too young for impassioned attentions and too old for childish coddling. She struggles viciously against her minders as they force her into elaborate wedding finery.

“Stop your fussing!”

“No!” She sinks her teeth into a maid’s arm and elbows the other. They stumble back and she runs. Through her uncle’s gardens and out the gates, faster, faster, don’t let them catch you. Footsteps behind her, heavy, hurried, her uncle’s men but she is lighter and faster.

Into the forest, weaving between the trees, her uncle’s men are caught in the branches but she’s smaller and nimbler. The night is black and inky, her uncle’s men have torches, _“I have fed you and clothed you for thirteen years,”_ she hears her uncle holler, _“it is time for you to repay me you ungrateful girl!”_

 _No!_ She screams in her head and keeps running. The winds are strong tonight, they huff and puff and they blow out the torches. _Follow the star,_ they hiss. Up ahead she sees the star, bright, humming with energy, it curves a graceful arc and zooms forward. Her uncle’s men are tangled in vines and darkness, she follows the star.

Across the valley and over the hills, farther, farther, she can’t hear her uncle’s shouts anymore. _Almost there, almost there,_ the sound of water, waves cheering her on from the shore. The star stops and hovers above a small boat, _hurry, hurry,_ it chirps. She pushes the boat into the water and climbs in. There are no oars on board, _hurry, hurry,_ the winds send her on her way. _Hurry, hurry,_ the waters usher her on her voyage. _Hurry, hurry,_ the star guides her to her destination.

She wakes in the early morning on a beach across the sea. The star swoops down and perches on her shoulder.

“You saved me.”

“You prayed for me to.”

“Hera?” She gasps.

Starlight melts into glossy feathers and the nightingale nips the girl’s shoulder playfully. “Yes.”

“There is a seamstress in a town not far from here,” the nightingale twitters. “She’s looking for an apprentice.”

“Thank you.”

“Let us resume our journey." The nightingale soars into the sky and glows, the brightest star.


	12. Sun

The sun’s not shining today, it’s hidden behind layers of thick grey cloud. It’s cold enough for snow and the sea water chills to the bone. The waves curl forlornly around the coast; their queen is weeping.

Amphitrite sits on a battered cove, dragging her fingers through the sand. She remembers when they used to come here, she and Hera, to watch the sailors go by. They would escape their mother, sneak away when Tethys was occupied, and hide on the surface, sometimes for days.

 _“What if you get married and leave me behind?”_ She remembers asking, gripping Hera's hand tightly.

 _“I wouldn’t leave you.”_ Hera had said, laughing at her silliness.

Then Zeus came and claimed her sister.

“You missed court today,” Poseidon is behind her, stepping cautiously into her cove.

“I’m sure no one noticed.”

“I noticed.”

“Did you?” She laughs brokenly, “I thought you only noticed the beautiful nymphs coming and going from Olympus.” She turns and offers him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You and your brother are very much alike.”

Poseidon bristles, “you’ve gone mad.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I am tired.” She takes his hand and pulls him to sit beside her. She leans into him, still holding his hand, Poseidon wraps and arm around his wife.

“I used to think you loved me,” Amphitrite says quietly. “You visited every day, you consoled me after Zeus took my sister,” she sighs. “I thought you loved me.”

He wants to speak, to tell her he _does_ love her, so much that he burns with jealousy to even hear her speak of Hera with admiration.

“I knew I loved you.” Did she? She’s never told him, never acknowledged any affection except for the heartbreaking smile she gave him when he asked for her hand. _I will see my sister again?_ And his heart fell into his stomach because she didn’t really want to marry him, she just wanted to see her sister, but he was willing to take anything she gave because she’s Amphitrite and magnificent and he loved her.

“I was so happy to marry the man I loved and to be able to see Hera again made everything even better.” She laughs bitterly. “But it wasn’t better. It was torture to see Zeus hurt her without batting an eyelash. And you…you are very like your brother.”

 _No,_ he tightens his arm around her, _no,_ he screams in his mind, _I only thought you didn’t love me!_ A horrible excuse he knows but he can feel her slipping away and he can’t, _won’t,_ live without her.

“I’m tired Poseidon, and weak. I cannot leave everything behind as Hera has done.” She looks up at him, pleading with her eyes, “I need you to let me go.”

“No!” Poseidon explodes, he holds her to his chest fiercely. “Never! I can never let you go. Please don’t leave me...”

Amphitrite is stunned, she tries to move back, to see his face but he holds her tighter. “Please don’t leave me,” he cries into her hair, “I didn’t know, I didn’t know that you loved me too, I thought…please…” He presses a million tear stained kisses into her hair, “Another chance, Amphitrite, give me another chance,” he pleads.

“Another chance,” she breathes, taking his hand again and lacing their fingers together. Amphitrite leans up and kisses Poseidon’s brow, “another chance.” The waves dance joyously at their feet.

On the other side of the cove there is a nightingale sitting dangerously close to the water. Hera whispers good luck to the couple and takes off, trailing the nightingale’s song to the sun.


	13. Scar

There is a scar on Hephaestus’ face, a jagged reminder that his father had cast him away as an infant, just born and barely able to open his eyes. He might have been beautiful if not for this scar and the twisted leg that pained him when it rained.

“Do not be ashamed,” Ares told him. “Scars are a warrior’s badges of honour.” But he is, he is ashamed of his face and his leg, ashamed of the ugliness that forced his parents to abandon him. His own parents were so disgusted that they threw him away, how could he expect anyone to love him?

“How could you even _think_ that you are worthy of me?” Aphrodite had said on their wedding night. He did not touch her after that.

He shut himself away in his forge, chiselling gold and hammering silver, letting his ugly hands spin beautiful creations. He was so happy when his mother came, finally breaking free of his father’s will. She welcomed him into her embrace and cried over and over, _my beautiful boy._ And then she was gone but he was still happy because he knew she loved him so very much and he knew she was suffering, so he tipped back his goblet, draining the wine and shouted farewells to the wind.

For a while after his mother leaves, he thinks he can be happy because he and his siblings have never been closer but he finds Aphrodite in bed with his brother and his heart breaks all over again.

They don’t speak of it and Ares doesn’t apologise but Hephaestus sees the regret and he sees Ares try and he thinks it’s enough, it has to be enough. Still, he distances himself from his brother just a bit and spends a little more time in his forge and his creations have never been more spectacular.

Eris breaks into his workshop one day and hauls him into his chambers. “We’re going to a party,” she announces, picking through his meager wardrobe. Eileithyia comes in with two attendants and shoves him, work gear and all, into the bathwater. They spend an hour primping and polishing, Hebe enters with a stack of new robes because, “You have two robes Hephaestus. Two. How is that even possible?” Eris asks. Eileithyia sits him in front of the mirror and he is pleasantly surprised.

“We had to drag that over from Aphrodite’s room,” Eileithyia says, “I couldn’t even find a reflective surface in here.” Of course she couldn’t, he’s made sure of that; Hephaestus despises his reflection. Eris orders one of the attendants to return the floor length mirror and tugs Hephaestus from his chair. “Hurry up.”

The mirror is too heavy and the flustered attendant stumbles and finds herself blinking wide eyes in Hephaestus’ lap.

“I…I’m so sorry my lord!” A lovely crimson blush staining her cheeks. Hephaestus laughs, “it’s alright my dear.” He helps her to her feet and stops when she reaches for the mirror again. “I’ll move that later. I imagine you would want to ready yourself for the party…”

“Aglaea,” she supplies.

“Aglaea, a beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” Hephaestus smiles. “Go prepare yourself and enjoy the party.”

Hebe and Eileithyia share a look as they usher him out the door.

“You are quite the charmer brother,” Eris says slyly.

“What do you mean?” Hephaestus asks obliviously.

The party is splendid and Hephaestus even dances with Hebe despite his leg. Dionysus has just received the year’s offering of wine and he is eager to share. “Have a drink Hephaestus, you work too much.”

Hephaestus is happy and laughing, he’s swaying with Eileithyia and maybe kind of just a little bit drunk. He bumps into someone, they crash to the ground and he finds himself staring at a pair of wide blinking eyes in his lap.

“Aglaea?”

“I’m so sorry my lord!” She blushes violently as Dionysus roars with laughter behind them. Hephaestus grins and lifts her up easily with one arm. “It’s alright my dear.”

They see each other everywhere after that. Aglaea is one of Aphrodite’s attendants, slipping away from her mistress whenever she can and peeking into Hephaestus’ rooms. Oblivious, Hephaestus greets her in the halls and even makes her a necklace for her birthday.

“It’s beautiful,” Aglaea’s eyes sparkle with awe and admiration and perhaps a little bit of something more.

“A beautiful gift for a beautiful girl,” Hephaestus smiles obliviously.

Aphrodite comes to his bed that night but Hephaestus finds himself strangely unaffected by her nakedness. She destroys half his room and tells him it’s embarrassing to watch him court his whore.

“You are just like your father!” She spits.

Hephaestus doesn’t understand. “I don’t even know who she’s talking about.” He tells Eileithyia the next day.

“Aglaea, brother, she’s talking about Aglaea.”

“But Aglaea is no whore!”

It takes all three of them to explain it to him. Eileithyia, Eris, and Hebe all take turns convincing him that Aglaea has feelings for him.

“But…I’m ugly…”

“You’re not ugly, you’re an idiot.” Eris says.

Later Hephaestus sits alone, contemplating in his workshop. “What am I to do?” He feels a sharp poking on his hand and looks down to see a glossy little nightingale pecking his fingers. “How did you get in here little bird?”

The nightingale tilts her head and hops onto his shoulder. “I’ll tell you what you should do,” she chirps brightly.

“Oh?” Hephaestus raises his eyebrow.

“Pick the one that makes you smile,” the nightingale says simply. “The one that makes you happy.”

“It’s not that easy…”

“Of course it is!” The nightingale nips his ear. “Your mother would want you to be happy.”

Hephaestus watches the nightingale fly away. _Thank you mother._

“What is this?” Aphrodite asks when Hephaestus lays the bracelet in front of her.

“A parting gift,” he says. “We are free of each other now.”

“Free?” Her face is stoic but there’s a flash in her eyes. Panic? Impossible, Hephaestus decides.

“A divorce.”

“Fine,” she gathers the bracelet from the table. “I’ll be gone before week’s end.”

“No,” he stops her. “The house is yours. I practically live in my workshop anyways.”

He finds Aglaea later, packing her thing., “What are you doing?” He asks from the door.

“The Lady Aphrodite has dismissed my services,” she sniffles.

“I’m sorry Aglaea,” he shuffles his feet uncertainly. “I came at an inopportune moment, and to think I was going to ask to court you at such a time…”

“What?”

“I’m sorry…”

“No,” Aglaea is breathless, excited. “You want to court me?” She asks.

“Yes, but if…”

“Yes!” She cuts him off, jumping into his arms and knocking them both to the floor.

“I’m so sorry my lord!”

“It’s alright my dear.”


	14. Solitary

Aphrodite is invited to Hephaestus and Aglaea’s wedding. _“A gesture of friendship,”_ Hermes tells her when he delivers the message. _“Personally if I were Hephaestus, I’d snub you for eternity.”_ Aphrodite hurls a vase at his retreating head and shreds the invite to pieces.

..

The first time Aphrodite meets Hephaestus is against the backdrop of a chaotic court. Hephaestus is angry and vengeful and he has bound his mother to her throne. The gods are begging him to release their queen but he is immovable. Aphrodite watches, fascinated, as he takes on an army of shining gods, this creature, so damaged he has nothing to lose. And she wants to feel sympathy for him, this pitiful man, but all she feels is betrayal and hatred because he’s demanding her hand as payment and they’re _agreeing._

She curses them all as Hephaestus hauls her over his shoulder and carries her off the mountain.

The second time Aphrodite meets Hephaestus they are sitting across from each other in his little room, she on the bed and he on the floor resting his aching leg. He apologises to her over and over. He only wanted to punish his parents, he never thought they would actually appease his outrageous demands. He tells her that he doesn’t want to be like his father, that he’ll take responsibility for his actions and he’ll do everything in his power to make her happy. And she feels her heart flutter just a little but Aphrodite is still stinging from betrayal so she tells him in her coldest voice that he’s unworthy and watches the hope crumble off his face.

She doesn’t see much of him after that. Hephaestus pours himself into his work and leaves her to do as she pleases. Not a week into their _marriage_ Aphrodite takes a lover. She flaunts it to spite him and takes pleasure when he averts his eyes and slinks away. The feeling is fleeting and quickly replaced with a heaviness she cannot define but Aphrodite ignores it the best she can and dedicates herself to frivolity.

Hephaestus is polite to her and ever respectful and she hates him for it because she can see him swimming in heartache, but retaliation never comes. She jeers and sneers and taunts and finally he tells her, _“I’m not my parents,”_ he says. _“The last time I tried to be I ruined you. Never again.”_

Ruined. He thinks she’s _ruined?_ Aphrodite wrecks havoc in Hephaestus’ workshop and leaves it in ruins.

The third time Aphrodite meets Hephaestus he is huddled in his mother’s arms. He towers over Hera but his mother manages to make him look like a young boy in her embrace. Aphrodite spies on them from her hiding spot behind the door and sees her husband smile for the first time.

He’s beautiful when he smiles, a tragic kind of beauty wrought from a lifetime of pain and unhappiness and Aphrodite’s not quite sure when she developed this urge to protect him, hide him from the world.

She stops taking lovers, spends her time instead, cataloguing his expressions and trying to gather the courage to tell him, tell him…what? She’s not sure. She doesn’t know what to do to get him to stop avoiding her, stop averting his eyes, _look at me, look at me!_ And the one time she does manage to make him smile, it’s small and sad and painful.

She stumbles into Ares one night. He’s drunk and angry and he thinks she’s Athena and if she squints and tilts her head just right, he kind of looks like Hephaestus. The real Hephaestus finds them in the morning.

The fourth time Aphrodite meets Hephaestus he is surrounded by a laughing crowd. They’re singing and dancing and Hephaestus is smiling. Aphrodite feels her heart beat faster and her cheeks grow warmer, she smoothes her skirts and steps forward only for Hebe to steal his attention away. And she’s confused by the glare Hebe throws at her until she sees Eileithyia not so subtly push he husband into Aglaea.

Aphrodite has never felt a jealousy so strong. It cuts through her like a thousand swords, she’s angry at Hephaestus and his sisters, but most of all she’s angry at Aglaea, this stupid little fool, nowhere near as beautiful as herself, has made her husband laugh.

She watches their friendship grow with a critical eye, watches as another woman falls head over heels in love with her husband, watches her dear Hephaestus slip away from her. And she knows she has no one but herself to blame but she still assigns Aglaea the most unpleasant tasks to perform.

The fifth time Aphrodite meets Hephaestus he’s holding her hand and giving her a bittersweet smile. She’s lost him forever and there’s nothing else she can do, so she lets her fingertips remember the pattern of calluses on his palm and accepts the very last gift he’ll ever give her.

Aphrodite wears Hephaestus’ bracelet under her robes, right above her heart.

..

She doesn’t go to Hephaestus’ wedding. She wants to say she’s happy for him but she can’t. And even in a room full of lovers, Aphrodite is solitary.


	15. Penance

Winter comes early this year when impatient Persephone steals away to see her husband. The nymphs gather to gossip and laugh at the _wayward girl_ and as punishment Demeter freezes their rivers and lakes. And so Poseidon’s palace is packed with refugees hoping to earn the favour of the notorious god. They flock to the throne room and the halls outside his chambers, hair tousled seductively and dressed to the nines, but the king is nowhere to be found. Indeed his presence has been missing for days and the queen’s rooms have been equally silent.

“What do you mean he’s not coming?!” Zeus’ roar has the ground shaking and Hermes dodging to avoid his spittle.

“If Poseidon’s not coming then I believe this meeting is adjourned.” Hades says, gesturing for an attendant to retrieve his cloak. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife is waiting.” Hermes is quick to follow and the room is emptied in seconds. Zeus, idle on his throne and stewing in anger, decides to pay his brother a visit.

The seas are frigid and the air is thick with falling snow but Amphitrite insists on walking barefoot. Poseidon trails behind her, one hand swinging her winter boots and the other poised to catch her should she fall. Amphitrite hops from rock to icy rock wholly unaware of the mini heart attacks she is giving her husband as she balances herself on the slippery surface. Today Poseidon’s path of penance has brought them to the shores of Troy.

“Poseidon,” she calls, arms reaching for him, lips forming a delectable pout. “I’m cold.”

He gathers her to his chest, brushing the snow off her shoulders and out of her hair. Amphitrite burrows her hands inside his cloak, chilly fingertips skimming his skin. She leans into him, flicking her tongue against his Adam’s apple and kissing the curve of his jaw.

“Amphitrite,” he moans, skin blazing under her touch. “Down.” She says, and he bends to accommodate her height. Her kisses glide up the side of his neck exquisitely slow. She stops to nibble his ear and her fingers trace abstract patterns across his chest. His blood is heating and his pulse is racing and it takes all his self control to not tear at her skirts. Amphitrite grins and presses her hips against him.

“Shall we return to our room?” He manages to stutter between laboured breaths.

“No,” she’s already tugging on his robes. “Here.”

“Poseidon!”

Poseidon lets out a grunt of frustration and draws his little wife further into his cloak as he looks up at his brother. “What?!” He growls.

“Why are you neglecting your duties and wasting your time here frolicking in the snow?”

Amphitrite squeaks indignantly from Poseidon’s chest and in defiance, presses her palm against the prominent bulge between her husband’s legs. Poseidon fights down a groan, his vision is blinded by a pleasurable haze and he grips Amphtrite’s waist tightly as Zeus continues his lecture.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Go away!” Poseidon practically begs when Amphitrite grinds her hand on him.

“Not until you explain yourself!”

Poseidon almost wails in despair as Amphitrite grasps him with both hands. “Room?” he asks her, voice straining, sweat beading on his brow.

“Anywhere with locks.”

They’re gone in a pretty swirl of heavy snow.

No one wants to play with Zeus today.


	16. Sinner

The snow ravaged land is still and barren. The birds have long gone but Hades’ keen eyes spy a curious set of nightingale tracks circling the base of a tree. He had been on his way home when he heard the bird’s song, a familiar voice calling his name.

“Hades,” the nightingale chirps. "Hello Hades.” She peeks at him from snow shrouded branches. Hades kneels down and offers his hand.

“It’s been a long time, sister.”

She hops onto his finger and catches his sleeve in her beak, pulling it around herself and nestling comfortably in the warm fabric. Hades settles himself under the tree and they sit together in silence, relishing the quiet companionship. Finally Hades says, “Hephaestus has remarried.”

“I know. She loves him very much.”

“You were there?”

“I’ve been visiting.”

Hades looks down at the little bird in his hands. “Where have you been sister?”

“I’ve walked the world,” she says with childish delight. “Did you know there are lands where people do not know us?” She eyes him intently. “Where do those people go when they die?”

She asks the question with an intensity that startles him and it takes Hades a couple beats to recover. “I don’t know,” he tells her, shaking his head. “Why do you ask?”

The nightingale deflates, dropping her head and dragging her wings. Hades can feel himself suffocating under a thick blanket of overwhelming sadness, “Hera?” She looks up and he can see the weariness in her eyes, sorrow and exhaustion sitting heavy on her mind and he wonders if she’s ever once slept while she was away. “Tell me,” he says and waits patiently as she gathers her thoughts.

What a strange sight it must have been, the dark hulking king of the underworld cradling a tiny bird in his hands, head bent and listening closely as she chattered away.

Hera tells him how she found acceptance, a mentor and a lover, how they were ripped away from her, and how she grieved. She tells him about Papa Muhammad and Mama Marah and Khurram. She tells him about Neela.

“They didn’t know who I was. They didn’t know anything about any of us. Where do you think Neela went?”

“I don’t know.”

“I killed her.” She says.

“Her death is not your fault.”

“I taught her magic.”

She buries her head in his sleeve. Hades sighs, he never once won an argument against Hera.

“Am I a sinner?” her voice is muffled. “Why do I kill all the things I touch?”

“You are not a sinner, sister.”

“Are you sure?”

Hades pats her head lightly with his finger. “You are my precious little sister, the one who asked for stories and pulled on my hair until I let her sit on my shoulders. She could never be a sinner.”

“Thank you,” the nightingale says, climbing on his shoulder. There is silence again, just a brother and a sister watching the snow together.

“How is Agapios?” She asks him hesitantly.

“He has bathed in Lethe and returned to the mortal world.”

She nods solemnly.

“Do you wish to find him?”

“I wish for his happiness.”

Hera tugs on a lock of his hair and pecks Hades on his brow, an imitation of a kiss.

“Goodbye brother,” she chirps, taking flight.

“Goodbye.”


	17. Saint

“I don’t understand,” Persephone says to her husband. "Are we having a party?”

Hades had barely stepped through the door when he was accosted by his wife. “What party?” He asks, taking off his cloak. Persephone grabs his hand and leads him to the dining hall, rarely used for the couple preferred to take their meals in bed. The table was piled high with plates; Hades could barely see Poseidon’s head behind a tower of fruit.

“Hello brother,” Poseidon waves at him cheerfully. “We started dinner without you.” Hades raises his eyebrow at Persephone who shrugs and takes a seat beside Amphitrite. He sighs and sits down.

"You didn’t tell me you were coming to visit.”

“We’re sorry for imposing on you,” Amphitrite offers an apologetic smile. “But our home has been invaded.”

“Invaded?!” Hades jumps to his feet. “Who dares invade the realm of a god?”

“Nymphs." Poseidon nods seriously.

“Nymphs?” Hades stares at his brother incredulously.

“Mm hmm,” Poseidon takes a sip from his goblet before answering. “Demeter froze the lakes and rivers so now all the nymphs have fled to my realm and they won’t leave me alone.”

“We barely made it out alive,” Amphitrite adds. “They chased us all the way to the River Styx.”

“It’s a good thing they’re all afraid of you.” Poseidon says.

Hades rubs his temples tiredly. “So you’re here because you want me to protect you from nymphs?”

“Yes!” Poseidon claps his hands together shamelessly. “It’s your mother-in-law’s fault in the first place. No offense.” He waves at Persephone.

“None taken,” she says. “Mother’s always been a bit dramatic.” Hades snorts into his plate, “a bit?” Persephone kicks him under the table.

And thus begins a new tradition. Persephone returns to the Underworld at the end of summer and Poseidon and Amphitrite come to stay for a month when Demeter freezes the rivers. But of course wherever Poseidon’s concerned things always manage to become unnecessarily difficult to deal with.

“The ferry is blocked _again,_ your majesty,” Charon sighs. "By nymphs.”

Hades storms into the guest chambers that Poseidon had converted into a games room because, _“It’s so dreadfully boring down here”_ and, _“Imagine the fun we’ll have, brother!”_ His brother was currently teaching Persephone how to gamble.

“The trick is to wear as many layers of clothing as possible, that way your opponent will be naked before you’ve even lost your second cloak.”

“Poseidon!”

“Hello, have you finished working already?”

“No, do you want to why?” Hades grinds the sentence through clenched teeth as he stalks to Poseidon slowly. Poseidon gulps and inches away. “Can’t say I’m interested.”

Hades grabs his collar before he can escape. “Your nymphs are blocking the entrance _again!_ ” he yells in Poseidon’s face. “Fix it!”

“I can’t go out there!” Poseidon’s voice is high and boyish, panicked. “They’ll maul me! I’ll never see my wife again!”

“Go or I will _make_ you go.”

“Please Hades, you can make them leave. Just growl at them like last time. Don’t make me go, brother, please.” Poseidon face has transformed to one of a pleading child and Hades bites back a heavy sigh because he knows he doesn’t have it in him to force his little brother into the fray. He releases Poseidon’s collar, runs a hand through his tangled hair, and readies himself to battle the lovesick nymphs.

Whoever says Hades isn’t a saint has clearly never spent time with Poseidon.


	18. Uncondtional

It’s raining again.

She loves the rain; the smell of it as it washes the world clean; the sound of it splashing, playing, like a child’s hurried steps as he runs to his parents, like heartbeats.

She loves the rain, a pure, unconditional love. She loves to dance in it, let it sit in her hair and slide across her skin. She used to love him like she loves the rain. He wishes she still did.

It’s raining again.

He sits on the uncovered balcony and lets the rain wash him and hopes maybe now he’ll be clean enough for her. He lets the rain drown him and thinks maybe when he opens his eyes she’ll be there. He’s drenched and shivering and the cold seeps into his ears and his nose and his fingernails. It crawls up his veins and sits in the hollow ribcage where his heart used to be, his heart that he tried to rip out and serve to her on a silver platter but it was too late and she was gone so he shredded it instead, tore it up because it was useless anyways. And he can’t even spare a moment to care because he’s unable to stop watching the rain. Every drop is a pretty sparkle in her eye, glowing, captivating. He’s mesmerised.

Downstairs he hears his children calling, “ _Come inside father it’s much too cold” “Aren’t you bored out there by yourself?”_ Not bored, not with the lovely raindrops dancing before his eyes, perhaps a little lonely though. Definitely lonely.

His children don’t understand, _“Isn’t this what you wanted? You’re free.”_ He supposes he did, once upon a time, when she still loved him but he was too self-involved to love her back, when her jealousy consumed her and he would leave her for days to seek comfort from another. He didn’t realise then how stifling freedom could be, how much it would drain from his soul and how it would gnaw on his sanity until there was nothing left but bits of bloodied flesh that only she could heal. But she’s not here anymore and he knows he can’t blame her for it but he does because he misses her so much and she doesn’t love him anymore.

And she’s been gone for so long he thinks she must have forgotten him, an unsavory memory, faded and ripped at the corners. But he will never forget her or the way she smiled when she was truly, truly happy or how she loved the rain. And he’s sure she must be watching the sky now, wherever she is, because it’s raining again. So he draws lightning, stark, white, bright across black clouds and hopes she sees him and hopes, maybe, she’ll remember.


	19. Rules

There are a lot of things Athena dislikes about Ares. She has a list of them, long and detailed and peppered with notes of her personal grievances with the only person who can make her lose her usual prudence. At the very top of this list is his utter lack of respect for rules. She’s confronted him many a time, listing reasons and citing examples, but she may as well have been lecturing a sack of rocks so stubborn was he.

The only rule that she’s ever seen him follow, obey almost obsessively, is the unspoken one that Hera teaches to all her children, _love Hephaestus._

And still Ares manages to make a foul.

..

She runs into him in the halls. Athena’s searching for Hephaestus and Ares is slinking out of Aphrodite’s room.

She knows what has happened even before she smells his sister-in-law’s perfume on him like a shroud of miasma. They look at each other for a long time, his face is haggard and weary and for once she has nothing to say. He lifts his hand, looks as if he’s reaching for her. She decides then to have Hermes deliver her message and leaves Ares alone in the hallway.

..

She finds herself studying Ares as intently as a lost traveler studies a map.

She observes his wavering confidence when Hephaestus responds to him with one word answers and silent nods. She sees him steel himself against the criticism, sees him let his sisters pick him apart for what he’s done, sees him break under Hephaestus’ acceptance.

Athena wonders if she’s the only one who sees Ares bleed when his brother distances himself from him.

..

“I thought she was you.”

He’s drunk, slumped over her door, and Athena thinks if he were wounded at this very moment he would bleed alcohol.

“Oh Ares.”

She helps him over to the bed and lays his head on her lap. Ares grips her hand tightly; his eyes are glassy but focused only on her.

“I thought she was you.”

Athena strokes his hair until he falls asleep.

..

“I don’t hate him,” Hephaestus tells her when she finally finds a chance to speak to him. “I could never hate him.”

“Perhaps you should tell him that.”

..

She’s just leaving the throne room when Hermes barrels in.

“Ares has been wounded!”

Athena’s never run so fast in her life.

..

“I’m sorry,” Ares croaks into his brother’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“I forgive you.” Hephaestus says, adjusting the splint on Ares’ injured leg.

“You don’t have to spare my feelings…”

“I’m not. I choose to forgive you Ares, I will always choose you.” Hephaestus nudges Ares’ forehead. “You’re my favorite brother you know.”

Athena listens behind the door, and smiles.

..

They resume their usual bickering when Ares’ leg heals. His arrogance makes her want to pull her hair out and her life lessons drive him insane. They argue all the way from the throne room to her chambers, about mortals and philosophy and Dionysus’ newest fling.

He holds open all the doors for her.

She kisses his cheek before saying goodnight.


	20. Tales

It doesn’t take long for the tales to reach Zeus, he latches on to any news of Hera like a dying man to life.

The stories are fantastical and he doesn’t want to believe them at first. A blind man who can carve Hera’s likeness into marble can only be a hoax, the lies of a swindler trying to peddle his goods. But when Hermes returns with one of the exquisite sculptures Zeus knows he has to see this man, speak with him, ask him about his muse.

“I was born blind you know,” the sculptor says. His fingers dance across cool marble, mapping its surface. Zeus is quiet, watching the man in front of him, a boy really, too young, but the air around him is charged with static; there’s magic in his fingertips.

“Tell me about your sculptures.”

The man stills. “My sculptures,” he smiles and there’s a bittersweet fondness in his voice. “I see her in my dreams sometimes. There are colours in my dreams and light and she’s there too.”

“Dreams?”

“Dreams, memories, both maybe.” They lapse into silence and Zeus is impatient to know more, the man cannot see his frowning face but he can feel it in his bones, the tense sparks. “The first dream, the very first one before the sculptures, she was crying.

“I was dying and she held me and there was blood on her face but she was glorious. And then I woke up and I had to make the sculpture, recreate her face, I was afraid I would forget it.

“Sometimes we’re on a ship and we’re laughing and telling each other stories, sometimes we’re living together and we sit by the hearth at night and I kiss her.”

Zeus clenches his fists until his nails dig into his palms and his hands are warm and sticky with his blood but he lets the man continue because he _needs_ to know.

“I think we were in love,” the man says. “I know I must have loved her.”

“Do you love her now?”

“Yes.”


	21. Amazing

Athena tried her best to sneak off unnoticed. Really she did, but Artemis is an excellent hunter…

The twins have her cornered, circling her like vultures.

“You look very pretty today Athena.”

“Why are you all dressed up?”

“Are you going somewhere fancy?”

“Where are you going?”

“Can we come?”

..

Hermes is the only one Eris tells, mostly because she needs a favour…

“You want me to steal Dionysus’ newest concoction?”

“Yes.”

“What’s in it for me?”

..

Dionysus gets suspicious when Heracles tries to stall him…

“You’re hiding something from me aren’t you?”

“What? No…”

Heracles is an awful liar.

..

Ares raises his eyebrow when he sees Artemis and Apollo skipping down the path behind Athena.

“I tried to lose them I swear.”

..

“How could you decide to throw a party without me?” Dionysus wails, dragging Heracles by the collar with one hand and shaking Hermes with the other.

“It’s not a party,” Eris huffs, stomping her foot. “It’s a dinner and you’re not invited!”

..

“We promise to behave.” Apollo squeezes himself between Ares and Athena to throw his arms around the war god’s shoulders.

“I even got us a main course!” Artemis waves a string of ducks in front of Athena’s face.

..

“Please, please, please, please, please!” Dionysus clings onto Eileithyia’s legs dramatically.

“Why did you bring him?”

“We didn’t do it on purpose, he just wouldn’t go away.”

..

The construction on Hephaestus’ new house had officially wrapped up yesterday. The morning was spent moving furniture and settling in, thoroughly exhausted, he was looking forward to spending a quiet evening with his lovely Aglaea.

Instead...

“A house warming dinner,” Hebe says, pushing past him to walk inside.

His living room is invaded in seconds.

“Oh neat! Is that new?” Apollo finds the decorative harp the moment he enters.

Dionysus’ arms are full of jugs,.“This one is made from red grapes, and this…”

“Where do I put this?” Artemis asks loudly, swinging her ducks in the air. Hermes kicks off his boots and sprawls out over the space of two chairs.

Hephaestus turns to glare at Eris, for this could only be one of her ideas.

“Congratulations! Your new house is amazing!” She pulls him into a hug and leans up to kiss his cheek and Hephaestus’ irritation ebbs away as he lifts his little sister off the floor.

“Thank you Eris.”


End file.
